A Box of Cookies.

I was in the process of sitting, hoping, wishing, and praying for inspiration to strike, when an angel came forth bearing a white box of cookies.

It was a delivery from my monthly cookie club, but this time it turned out to be a lot more than just a box of cookies.

Eagerly encouraged to open it up and take a look, I carefully lifted the lid and what I saw inside brought tears to my eyes.

Which has never happened to me before, of course!

I mean who would’ve thought cookies could make you cry.

(then again I cry at literally everything)

But these were happy tears, very happy tears, because the cookies in front of me were the most thoughtful ones I have ever received.

Carefully drawn on top of the most scrumptious sugar cookies were various illustrations, including a cat, a journal, some quotes, a camera, and a spitting image of me.

They were all engravings of the things most important in my life: writing, inspiration, cats, coffee, and a lovely portrait that mirrored an image taken of me for a blog post in which I talked about growth and embracing the journey of life.

There I was, holding this precious box of cookies, tears welling out of my eyes, in absolute disbelief that someone had taken the time and care to craft such sweet (literally, and figuratively) treats that displayed all the loves of my life.

It was just the kind of inspiration I was looking for.

Sometimes, I forget that people care about me. This becomes especially present during my lousy lows, when I truly believe that I’m all alone, that no one minds me.

And I know it’s not true. But sometimes the phone devoid of messages and the lack of social activity lining the pages of my planner take a toll on me.

Then something like this happens, this simple act of receiving an extraordinary box of cookies, and I’m reminded that I’m not alone, and that people out there do care, pay attention, and support and believe in me.

Things like this make me stop and think of all the people in my life I love and care about. I think to myself, how often do I tell them or show them I feel this way? I know it’s not enough. And it will never be enough because there aren’t enough words in the world that express how much I love and appreciate that person.

But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t stop expressing it, in any way I can.

This angel who delivered the blessed box of cookies showed me that it doesn’t take a lot to express how much you care, that sometimes it’s the little things that mean the most and have the most profound influence.

It’s the little things that make the “sweetest” impact.

change.

I was long overdue for a cry.

It had been weeks since I last let loose the floodgates and I knew it was only a matter of time before I relapsed.

This time, I ended up crying in my bed for hours, journaling interrupted by this sense of overwhelming.

I knew it was time. The week before was full of little nuisances that stuck to my heart like pieces of nasty gum.

Usually, these things normally wouldn’t bother me.

A guy cut me off in the roundabout then honked at me, insinuating it was my fault. Instead of brushing it off my shoulder, I let it pain me the rest of the day.

When I bussed a table I noticed a couple hadn’t finished their coffees and it made me sad to pour them down the drain.

At work, we had a gentleman stomp off in a huff and even though it had nothing to do with me, I took his leave as a personal attack.

So I find myself here, lying on my bed with a stupid half empty glass of wine that I thought had been a good idea earlier. Now, as you can imagine, I’m having regrets.

It’s like all these little things I let bother me are all of a sudden rising to the surface and I’m choking on all the negativity.

I lay paralyzed, believing I have no friends to call and open up to. I will forever feel self-conscious about feeling this way in front of them.

I have no man to cuddle with, no partner in crime to console me and help me forget about the world and all of its problems.

My cat has even disappeared on me.

It’s just an empty bed, a soggy mound of mascara stained tissues, a flickering candle, and my own solemn company in this lonely bedroom.

It’s one step forward, and then two steps back for me.

Through these bleak wine-induced lenses, I see myself as a total failure, a disappointment. I feel I have let myself down in all areas of my life, forgetting about the fullness of the life I have, the people who love me, and the immense growth I have made. It’s like none of that matters. All that’s left is this… thing that smothers my ability to appreciate and love who I am.

I don't know what it is that triggers these downfalls, if it’s a culmination of little sensitivities I let eat away at me, but here we are.

I find comfort though, in tracing the tears as they make their descent down my cheeks, landing softly in the crevasse by my nose or the spot above my upper lip. It gives me something to focus on, anything is better than what I’m thinking about.

Dull, depressing, dangerous thoughts.

*heavy sigh

It’s time to change something.

I’m tired of repeating posts like this, that are full of profound sadness and the truth that I am not okay on the inside.

It was only after a very honest conversation with the only person I can even come close to sharing these feelings with that I realized that I’m drowning, but I am the one that’s keeping myself under water.

Me.

For too long, I’ve been in search of that thing that once made me happy. I thought I would get it from moving out of state. I thought I would find it when I blocked bad guys from my past. And I thought that if I changed unhealthy habits as often as I change my clothes, I would somehow get there, to that place where I am fully in love with who I am and the life I live. But chasing those things that I believed would make me happy wasn’t the solution because the problem lied right here, within me in this heavy heart of mine.

I notice that I spend so much time trying to fix what’s on the outside, my appearance, my house, my obsession with making sure people perceive me a certain way that I neglect to care for the most important part of me: the inside.

This life I lead will eventually crumble if I don’t take care of the foundation and the heart that keeps this body beating and moving.

I’ve had the tools to book an appointment to see someone, have gotten close to picking a date even, but I always wind up making excuses, claiming “I don’t have enough money for a session, let alone two.”

But if I’m willing to spend money on a lawnmower to make my yard look nice, or money on a new haircut, or a fabulous new bag, but not on my mental health, what does that say about me?

That there’s something wrong.

I think in my eyes, I don’t believe I’m worth it. But it scares me to realize that I am purposefully keeping myself from getting better, and that I’ve been doing it for years.

There are no problems in my life bigger than those I am inflicting upon myself, and I want to experience all this beauty and life surrounding me and not come home and lie on my bed, staring at nothing while the world beckons for me to live again.

I want that simple thing. To live again.

As I publish this, as a small hopeful smile makes its way across these quivering lips, I am happy to share that I have booked my first appointment with someone who can help me, really get to the root of what’s wrong and why I feel the way I do.

And I think, and believe, that this will be the best $180 I have ever spent on myself. Better than a dress, tickets to a basketball game, a trip to see some guy, or that damn lawnmower.

I read somewhere that all you can change is yourself, but sometimes, that changes everything.

And so that’s where I’ll start.